


A Measure of Sanity

by antietamfalls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antietamfalls/pseuds/antietamfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't notice he's been shot. John panics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Measure of Sanity

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Эталон благоразумия (A Measure of Sanity)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220455) by [RecklessGold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessGold/pseuds/RecklessGold)



> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=118758431#t118758431) on the kink meme.

John first noticed the spots of blood in the stairwell as he was returning home. They were sprinkled haphazardly on the wooden banister and right side of the individual steps. Confused and bearing reservations about what manner of gruesome experiment he might run into upstairs, John nevertheless quickened his pace.

Sherlock was seated at the table in the sitting room, busily engrossed in his laptop. Scattered case files and photos of the Yard's most recent serial homicides almost entirely covered the tabletop. Over the last week, they both had traversed the entire city several times over, Sherlock finally convinced he was approaching a breakthrough on the case. Today, unfortunately, John had been unable to accompany the detective.

It took a second or two for John to notice the streaks of blood on their hardwood floors, as well as the fact that Sherlock's entire right side was soaked in the red substance. His dark shirt and trousers camouflaged the stains, but John's trained eye easily picked them out.

"Don't tell me you harpooned another unfortunate piece of livestock," John complained loudly. It was just like Sherlock to not bother cleaning up after another grimy outing.

Sherlock grunted dismissively, frantically flipping through several pages of police reports. His level of concentration was laser-like, and John suspected he was on the precipice of epiphany.  

John removed his coat and hung it on the hook on the wall. Consciously avoiding the sticky blood patches, he stepped closer to Sherlock.

From this distance, it was clear the blood on his clothing wasn't consistent with having killed a small animal. Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to its existence.

"Sherlock," John said, his chest growing icy. "Did you... where did that blood come from?"

"There was a minor brawl on my way home, John. Nothing to be concerned about," Sherlock answered, still distracted.

It was best if John knew of any dead bodies out there in the streets, just waiting to be discovered and linked back to his insane flatmate. That was the last thing he needed. "When did this happen? Did you hurt someone?"

"Not a half hour ago. I had just discovered a critical piece of evidence. The ruffians attacked me and received several cuts when I repelled their weapons. Unfortunately, they escaped. Now, if you _please_ , I need to concentrate!"

John stood and processed this information. It wasn't adding up - the amount of blood on Sherlock's clothes suggested far more than a few cuts. It took him too long, far too long, to notice that Sherlock was paler than normal.

Before John could sort out his observations, the detective suddenly glanced at the array of pinned pictures and lists of suspects that hung above the fireplace. He made a quiet noise that John recognized as deductive revelation. Sherlock, holding a page of one of the reports, sprang from his seat and launched excitedly towards the display.

The launch was successful, but sustained flight encountered a critical failure. Sherlock made it halfway across the room before his legs buckled. He collapsed shakily against John's armchair, grabbing hold of the fabric in an attempt to break his fall.

John was moving in an instant, military instincts taking over. He found himself kneeling at Sherlock's side with no memory of crossing the intervening distance. Looking directly at his face, John immediately saw an almost ashen complexion. Much of the blood drenching his shirt was dull with partial dryness, but a significantly worrying patch shone with fresh wetness.

"Sherlock, what happened?" John asked with calm composure, hands moving to unbutton his friend's shirt. Sherlock tilted his head to see, unable to hide his expression of complete shock.

"I- it was their blood, I saw the cuts. I was grazed, but it was nothing. I barely felt it," he gasped.

John opened the sopping cloth. His stomach dropped, threatening to break through his professional demeanor. He grabbed Sherlock's right hand and pressed it down over the wound. "Hold that there. Keep pressure on it. I'll be right back." Years of practice was the only thing keeping his voice calm. He didn't need Sherlock panicking.

Sprinting up the stairs to his bedroom, John nearly tripped over the last step at the top. The door flew open more violently than anticipated. Frantically, he dug with numb purpose under his bed for the emergency kit. The trip downstairs was far faster.

He grabbed Sherlock's phone where it lay on the table, then went back to his friend on the floor. Sherlock still had his hand obediently pressed to his side, eyes widening when he saw John's face.

John dialed 999 and stuck the mobile to his ear, held by his shoulder. He snapped the emergency kit open with his free hands, and began quickly sorting through its contents. An emergency operator answered the line. "Emergency. What service?"

"Ambulance," John answered. While waiting for the transfer, he found the packet of hemostatic gauze and ripped it open. Thank God he still had some left over.

"Hello, ambulance service."

"I have an adult male with suspected gunshot wound at 221B Baker Street," John said steadily. "I believe it was received within the last forty minutes. Possible exposure to infected blood. I'm a doctor, and I believe I can stabilize him until an ambulance arrives."

"An ambulance is on the way," she said. "Do you need anything else?"

John thanked her and said no, then flung the phone aside without bothering to turn it off.

Sherlock was looking dazedly at him, sweating. "Gunshot?" he asked, disoriented.

"Yes, you great git." John suspected he was succumbing to shock from blood loss. Pulling Sherlock's hand from its place on the wound, John finally inspected it closely. He felt around the back, and found an exit wound. Thankfully, the bullet had passed clean through. There would be internal bleeding, but that would require surgery.

He pulled the hemostatic gauze out of the package and carefully wrapped it so both the entrance and exit wounds were covered. John held his hands snugly on each side, pressing down. Hopefully it would clot quickly.

"Do you remember hearing a gun go off?" John asked, an edge of panic invading his tone.

Sherlock wore an expression of complete disbelief. He managed to shake his head.

"You didn't even know most of this blood was yours?"

He shook his head again.

It was probably the adrenaline. Sherlock was so focused on finishing the case, on solving the damn _puzzle_. John's initial reactionary calmness was slipping away. In any military or medical situation, he would be handing off the patient to someone else or reservedly keeping his distance while tending to others. This was different. So, so different. 

"John, that hurts," Sherlock complained agitatedly.

"Of course it hurts! You got bloody _shot_ and you didn't even _notice_!" John practically yelled. "God, if I hadn't come home when I did... I almost went straight to the pub..." Something hot and angry caught in his throat. His eyes stung.

Sherlock moved his bloody hand to cover John's where it pressed against the gauze, now blooming red with absorption. His cold hand pulled at John's, and John realized the mentioned pain was from his own excessive pressure on the injury. He relaxed his grip slightly.

"Sorry," said John. The unnatural cold of Sherlock's hand caught John's attention. He reached up for the throw blanket on the back of his armchair, and spread it out over his friend.

Sherlock didn't respond directly, but anxiously glanced around the room and finally settled his eyes back on John. His breathing was becoming more rapid and shallow, clear signs of hypovolemic shock. There was no telling how much blood volume Sherlock had lost between the site of the incident and Baker Street.  

"Just hold on, Sherlock. You'll be fine. I'm right here," John reassured him, throat tightening. More than anything else, seeing the uncontrollable alarm in Sherlock's eyes terrified John.

The blare of sirens could be heard in the distance, gradually growing louder.

John willed the medics to move faster, to hurry as if their lives depended on it. Couldn't they see? Couldn't they understand that one of London's most important people was bleeding to death on his own floor?

A loud knock came at the front door. Thank God.

\---

Everything after the ambulance arrived was a blur. They wouldn't let John accompany Sherlock in the ambulance, even after he yelled at them repeatedly. Mrs. Hudson, who had answered the door for the medics, was taking everything remarkably in stride. She pulled John aside and promised to call him a cab, unabashedly warning him on the ramifications of punching an emergency worker. Before he could leave Baker Street, she forced him to wash his blood-covered hands and remove his stained jumper.

"The flat - it's a mess," John told her apologetically before he stepped into the cab.

"Never you mind. One large cleaning bill is worth Sherlock's life, I think," she answered.

Lestrade, who admitted to having been called by Mrs. Hudson, was already at the hospital when John arrived. Together, they sat anxiously in the sterile waiting room.

John, head in hands, spent most of the time staring at the clock on the wall and imagining the worst.

"You saved him, John," Lestrade gently consoled.

"It shouldn't have been that close. Why can't he just take care of himself?" John lamented, turning to look at Lestrade.

"You know how his mind works. Better than anyone else." Lestrade chuckled lightly.

"That's the problem. Is it too much to ask for a measure of sanity?"

A doctor came to tell them Sherlock was out of surgery and would make a full recovery. However, only family was being allowed in to see him. Mycroft hadn't appeared yet, although John suspected the elder Holmes was remaining well-informed through the lenses of the myriad security cameras.

Several threatening statements and flashes of Lestrade's badge later, they were let into the recovery room. John took in everything: the impersonal bed, the beeping heart monitor, the various tubes and wires. Sherlock opened his eyes upon noticing their entrance. He looked immensely tired.

"Mrs. Roberts," Sherlock said, weakly.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Mrs. Roberts," the detective stated louder, strength growing. "She's the killer, Lestrade. You'll find her hiding at the accountant's summer home, I expect."

"For Christ's sake!" John shouted. He pinched thumb and forefinger to either side of the bridge of his nose, utterly frustrated. "Just- just to sum up, Sherlock: today, so far, you've engaged in a mutually harmful physical altercation with suspected criminals, failed to notice you were mortally wounded, survived massive internal hemorrhaging, and only just woken up from major abdominal surgery. Is this really the proper time for crime-solving?"

"John," Sherlock admonished, "it's always the proper time for crime-solving."

John could literally feel the rage radiating from his body.

"I'm, er, going to call the Yard, then," Lestrade announced cautiously. "I'll just- yes, I'll just step out." The D.I. left the room expediently.

There was a chair along the wall next to Sherlock's hospital bed. John sat down heavily, all pretense of self-control dissipating. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. John gripped the sides of the chair in an attempt to not choke the life out of his friend.

"You want to yell at me again," Sherlock noted, turning slightly where he lay. "Keep going, if it will make you feel better."

And John did want to shout. He wanted to yell until he was hoarse, and Sherlock finally got it through his thick skull that he had conducted himself horribly.

Instead, John leaned over on his knees and covered his face with his hands. It wasn't intentional, but he felt his pure anger loosening and transforming into something far more devastating. Sherlock remained dead silent, but John could imagine him trying to decipher this strange, foreign behavior.

"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively, as if John were a bomb that might go off at the slightest provocation.

"Damn it. Damn _you_ ," John muttered into his hands.

Silence again.

"Death is not the worst that could happen, John."

"Yes, but perhaps you should consider the impact of your flawed logic on others. For once." John lifted his head and folded his arms in front of himself on the bed.

"It's true."

"It's true when it's an accident, or someone murders you, or you die for some other uncontrollable reason. That's fine, I can accept that sort of end. But to just- to not even care enough about your own well-being to consciously prevent it..."

"It's my prerogative how I conduct myself."

"Your conduct affects others, Sherlock! It affects _me_ ," John exclaimed, an outburst that erupted more forcefully than intended.

They stared at one another for several seconds. Something shifted in Sherlock's expression. It was a touch of confusion.

"It's okay that you leave me at crime scenes. I can handle it when you go off on your own in a cab, or even when you run shady errands in the middle of the night. But don't- _don't_ , for one second, think it's all right to voluntarily leave this planet. I can follow you most anywhere, Sherlock, but not- not there."

A faint frown crossed Sherlock's face.

"I know you think I'll get fed up and leave eventually," John continued quietly, dropping his eyes to the faded blanket, "but please know you're not the only one afraid of being alone again. "

Dead silence once more.

"I could tell early on that we were going to be friends for a very long time, Sherlock. I don't want to be cheated out of that by _you_ , of all people."

John felt a hand hesitantly touch his forearm. He glanced up to see Sherlock staring at him intently. "I... hadn't realized, John."

"What?"

"That you were planning so far ahead."

John furrowed his brow. "I know you don't have much experience in the way of friends, Sherlock, but surely you've thought about what we'd be up to in twenty years? Thirty, forty, even?"

"Not really. I've been living in the present for as long as I can remember. A habit from... worse days. Lestrade remembers. I've never had much incentive to anticipate... well- anything, really. Good or bad."

John moved his free hand to cover Sherlock's where it was placed on his arm.

"I promise to pay closer attention to these things," Sherlock said, gesturing at his grievous injury.

"You're not just saying that?" John asked.

Sherlock broke into one of his rare, genuine smiles. "Not anymore."


End file.
